


didn't I say I'd think about it

by thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anal Sex, Biting, Bukkake, Dirty Talk, F/M, Foursome - F/M/M/M, Kingdomstuck, Light Bondage, M/M, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Partners, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Polyamory, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Scratching, Sexual Exhaustion, Spitroasting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 02:48:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19039618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: Rose and Dave think Dirk needs a break, possibly one that comes with the finest plush rump in all the land. Dirk...attempts, and fails, to disagree. It's hard to, when even your patron goddess is telling you so.Harder still, when said fine plush rump keeps A) Giving you the eyes and B) Making salacious double entendres.





	didn't I say I'd think about it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sartorially](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sartorially/gifts).



> "Fantasystuuuuck. Please, please, please dispense upon me the goods. I'm looking for Dirk as an immortal prince, although how he's immortal is really up to you, with Rose and Dave as his favorite and most trusted advisers. Jake is a knight-in-training of a foreign nation turned diplomat. Rose handles spiritual matters and Dave handles earthly matters, both of which are important to an immortal ruler looking to keep current on his domain and underlings.
> 
> Something, something, Dirk overworks himself because he always does the most. Rose suggests he get himself a consort, why not that handsome page from the neighboring kingdom, and Dirk agrees under the caveat that his most valued advisers be present. What if it's an assassination attempt, or a plant to gain information that will be his undoing? Dave and Rose agree to supervise.
> 
> ...Physically."
> 
> goods: dispensed

"So what's her latest angle?"

You spare less than half a glance for your faithful knight-turned-advisor, hoping that keeping up your usual cool demeanor will prevent anyone from spotting the way your ears are turning pink at the thought of his question and red at the thought of your answer. "Stress relief," you say, and Dave snorts. It's not an angle that would hold much water if it weren't for the fact that it's...well, it's _really_  appealing. "Close your mouth before something flies into it, Strider."

"Of course we couldn't have something as awful as that happening," says Dave, and you brace yourself for the impending ramble. "Catching flies in my mouth? Why, I'd be bringing more shame to the kingdom than a two-legged donkey in a three-legged horse race. In fact—"

"In _fact_ , I told her no," you say, cutting him off as effectively as you know. There's another stack of paper under the first one you'd just completed, and you suppress a sigh as you shift aside the latest report on the state of the kingdom's roads to examine food reports. "End of subject, discussion closed."

"For now," Dave says.

"For now," you amend, leaning back in your seat to grab another sheet of fresh paper. "Until she finds some new angle."

"So you've got, what. Two days? Tops? If she's in a sour mood and also caught that really nasty cold going around?"

"Don't forget that she'd also need to actually get a full night's sleep."

"Right, of course," he says, then—miracle of miracles—goes silent for a few full minutes. You're about to alert the philosophers, the guard, the monks, literally anyone you can think of, when he speaks up again. "But, you know, uh—"

"Spit it out, Dave."

"She might not be _entirely_  wrong," he says, and you close your eyes to steel yourself for this latest bout of idiocy. Wrong move. "While I'm not saying that you _need_  someone in your life—you do have me and Rose, after all—even if you're a strong, independent prince who doesn't need a man, it might not be bad to have a tasty piece of ass served up as part of the nightly buffet. There are far worse things than the fine plush rump of some sexy twink-in-training, and even if you, I don't know, work harder than _god_ , that doesn't mean you can't take a break to get a little bit laid every now and then. Didn't you use to have a thing with—"

" _Thank_  you, Dave," you say, as a last resort attempt to protect what's left of your sanity and the remainder of your eardrums. He starts to open his mouth again, and you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. "I'll consider it." Fuck.

"That's all I wanted to hear," he says, and manages to resume silence again.

 

This time, when he starts rambling once more—two minutes later—it's a standard Dave ramble, and much easier to turn into the kind of background noise you usually prefer to have.

 

* * *

 

Two mistakes: Telling Dave that Rose always wins (she knows this is true, she doesn't need to hear it admitted out loud), and telling Dave that you would _consider_  Rose's suggestion.

Rose, like all of your least-most favorite people, takes any sign of weakness as an admission of defeat.

It explains many things about her personality, her as a person, and her general approach to...well, your life, your liberties, and the pursuit of your actual happiness. Unhappiness. You've never been completely sure which she preferred to keep in mind, but here you were with Jake English, knight-in-training (page, you think, Prospit used different terminology to be sure) extraordinaire, turned diplomat and shipped over by way of an "alliance" meant to be made via ass and dick.

 

Okay. Well.

It's a _pretty_  nice ass. And you've heard good things about that dick.

Also, Roxy's always been of the opinion that diplomacy would go a hell of a lot better if it had two Cs instead of one and people tossed in a spare letter k.

 

Jake English sweeps himself into a bow, looking for all the world like he's just stepped off the pretty boy printing press, and you, immortal though you might be, find yourself sitting up _just_  a little bit straighter. He's grinning, like he's delighted to see you, and you find yourself giving him a look in return. Not a grin, of course, but...something on the border of friendly, or at least in the next town over from it.

You also find yourself ignoring how smug and superior and pleased both Rose and Dave look, as well as the discreet tap of knuckles they allow themselves when they believe your back to be turned. Assholes. You'll have to return the favor later.

Later, though, is going to be a while in coming, because Jake's approaching the throne and whoa there. He doesn't stop at the "pre-approved" line, he doesn't stop at the bottom of the dais, he doesn't even stop at the top—nope, he beelines straight for the very foot of your throne, drops down on his knees, and bows just low enough that his head's practically in your lap.

Pure instinct decides to take the reins, and unfortunately, your brain decides to let it. Basically, your hands end up tangled in his hair, and your hips just _don't_  move a fraction of an inch upward. Jake, though? Jake _definitely_  gives you some kind of noise that you're trying really hard to pretend isn't a moan.

"Your Highness," he says, when you tug his head upwards. Might as well fucking roll with it, right? "It is a _pleasure_  to serve you. My pleasure, I mean! I'm sure we'll get along splendidly."

"Mm," you say, because you do not trust your godsdamn traitor voice right about now. "Well—"

"Your kingdom is absolutely spiffing!" Is this guy for real? "I hope you don't mind that I was just a titch late, I couldn't help but get my exploration hat once I saw all the beauty and bounty this place holds!"

"It's...fine?"

"Of course," he says, and oh gods he licked his lips, godsdammit, you fucking hate both Rose and Dave, "if I'd known of the bounty awaiting me here—but never mind that! I am _completely_  at your service. But say the word, and I would gladly give you all that I have to give."

Your grip tightens in his hair for a moment, and his eyes slip shut, his lips part—and then they're open again, bright green tempting, and you find the wherewithal _somewhere_  to call for a servant to take Jake to his quarters and get him settled in.

If anyone else notices how rough your voice has become, they have the good sense not to say a word until you've gotten up off your throne and stormed out.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later and Rose and Dave are draped over the luxurious couches in your quarters, waiting for you to finish up your anger-based routine of carefully organizing things until you've blown off enough steam that you don't _have_  to haul one of them down to the training courts.

One breath. One heartbeat.

"He's—did you _see_  that? The way he just—I've never met anyone so—"

"That might be the problem, Dirk," says Rose, and the only reason she doesn't smirk is because she's concentrating on all the threads of a spell. "Have you ever considered that?"

"I don't _need_  to consider that," you tell her, and desperately try not to think about the fact that maybe you _have_  been considering that a little bit _more_  ever since Jake English walked in. "I have you and Dave to consider that for me. _My_  job is to keep going and getting things done. Fixing the kingdom, whatever else there is to be fixed."

"Dude," says Dave, at the same time that Rose says "No."

You really, _really_  hate it when they do that. "I hate it when you do that."

"We know."

" _And_  that. Roxy and I don't do that!"

Rose and Dave exchange a look, and you can see them doing a mental round of some challenge-choice game to decide who'll take point on this one. You hate that too, but you can't _quite_  complain as much, if only because there's so much else to complain about. From what you can tell, Rose loses. Surprising, that. She must _want_  to start. "Dirk, a quality of yours...you tend to be incredibly self-contained, and please, do not bother with the tedious denial. Everyone present knows the truth, _and_  you, inside and out, no matter how much you might prefer to pretend that this isn't so."

Dave tends to blush with all of him, which, when you're put in the awkward situation of getting flustered at the same time that he is, makes you very grateful for your comparatively mild reactions—your ears, and the back of your neck, start to burn. "So you're saying I need a thirsty twink in my life who literally wants my dick so bad that he never shuts up about it? I thought I already had Dave and Roxy for that."

"Jake's a top," says Dave, and you decide, very carefully, to not ask how he found that out. Down that road your thoughts do not need to go. Down that road is an extra half hour in the bath, curled over on yourself, pulse rushing and breath heavy, as you stroke out the pleasure you've always worked so hard to hide. "So he's probably literally wanting your ass so bad that he'll never shut up about it."

"Great," you say, and then, because you're probably a masochist, "are you sure?"

"He's either a top or a really good powerbottom," and _oh gods why did Rose have to be the one to reply_. "I would say that he plays either angle equally well. You two will get along...swimmingly."

"I hate you both," you inform them, and stomp back into the depths of the workroom attached to your chambers. You'll deal with them when you're a little less yourself.

 

* * *

 

You're sitting in bed with an actual book for once in your life when feet land on your spare pillow and you're hit with a sudden awareness of brightness and life. Gods dammit. Her timing is absolutely perfect.

"So when do I finally get to meet your friends? I want to hang out with Dave and trade patterns with Rose!" It's her usual request, and you sigh, ready to redirect her as ever, but before you can formulate a backup to your first three plans, you notice the expression on your patron goddess' face.

"What's wrong?" Of all the things you've learned about gods over your time associating with Feferi—and all of the things you've learned about Feferi in particular—her relative age is one of your favorites. She's lived for thousands of years, centuries longer than you'd ever thought you'd have, and yet, on the scale of things, you're still _technically_  older than her, and sometimes, it really shows. Now, for instance—she looks worn, drawn and almost ashy, dark circles under her eyes that tell you she hasn't been getting enough sleep (does she need it? You usually don't), her hair not so much a tumble of waves as a tangle of curls. "Peixes, hey. Look at me."

"It's fine," she tells you, rolling onto her back and sprawling out across your bed. " _I'm_  fine."

"Feferi—"

"Keep it up and I'll start listing off all the reasons Rose and Dave are right," she threatens, and you throw your book at her head.

"Stop eavesdropping, Peixes, it's unbecoming of a god."

She catches it and, with a gentle flick of her wrist, sends it sailing back to its place on your nightstand. "I'm _your_  patron, Dirk, I couldn't not listen even if I wanted to!"

You roll your eyes, and count indivisible numbers in your head. It's not your best effort at a distraction, but it will definitely suffice. When Feferi's forehead scrunches up, as she tries to sort out what exactly you're planning to do, you pounce.

 

Pinning Feferi down—winning the start of the fight, the battle, the opening moves of whatever gambit or game you've decided to play—has never been the problem. _Keeping_  her there, when she's decided she's no longer interested in playing by your rules, is what tends to be the issue. "What do you know about Jake English?"

She wrinkles her nose at you, then has a go at another pout. "You're literally the worst worshipper, I hope you know that. Attacking your goddess! Why, I _never_."

"Don't even try, Peixes, I know what you do in your spare time."

"And I know what you do in yours!" Her eyes are alight (you're never sure if her existence has a tendency to turn metaphors _literal_ ), and she laughs, reaching up to ruffle your hair. "I'm not going to help you come up with reasons to be unhappy," she says.

"I'm not unhappy," you reply, and feel that little ripple down your spine that is the tangible weight of her doubt. "Feferi. I'm not."

"I didn't say you _were_ ," she tells you, and you mentally tick back through the conversation you'd had. Feferi is not a liar, after all, and further thought reveals that you were wrong and she was right. "I said—"

"You weren't going to help me come up with _reason_  to be. Right. I know," you say, and then, because she's working on it and therefore you ought to, too, "I was wrong."

There are few things that measure up to a goddess' delight, and Feferi's comes quite _literally_ , sometimes, all the plants that you've somehow ended up keeping in your room bursting into wild bloom, the overwhelming scent of green, of growth, of life, all culminating in a brilliantly quick kiss that she steals just before she disappears.

You sit back on your knees and swear. The bakers'll be happy, but picking and carting all of these flowers and produce products out of your room is going to be a _bitch_.

 

* * *

 

"I never told you guys how I ended up immortal," you say, staring down at the latest piece of machinery in your hands. There has been a demand, from several corners of your tight-knit world, that you take time off for things you like. This includes, apparently, tinkering. You will not admit that it—this, this free time—is kind of nice.

Dave and Rose trade a look, their silent communication not rubbing your nerves raw the way it usually would. "No," says Dave, going slow, like you're some wary animal he needs to approach. "Don't think you did."

"The old bastard made a deal with the Cold Witch." In your periphery, you can see Dave startle and Rose settle, composed, both of them looking like their worst fears and best guesses are confirmed. "Hard luck for him. You remember the Gods War? How she lost?"

"It would be difficult for any of us to forget."

"Turns out, it's hard to get rid of a pact set up in the way that he'd arranged his." Left twice, to check the mechanism. You can feel Feferi resting her chin on your shoulder, like she's actually there, like she's nowhere to be found. "So when the Bright Witch won her throne away, it was like an untethered end, hanging loose in the open air—I think? Like..."

_Like a conduit of power left adrift. Dangerous to anyone who might come too near, deadly if tapped and misused._

"It's a power conduit. Direct line to the goddess who rules it. Could do some serious damage to anyone who came in without knowing what was up, or straight up kill someone who tried to misuse or control it." _Thanks_ , _Feferi._

_No problem!_

"So she offered it to you?" They're both quick on the uptake, and you've always been pleased with that aspect of them. "Or dropped it on you with no warning?"

"Offered. We're working on the drop with no warning thing." You set the piece down, and look up at them both. "Anyway, she's my patron goddess now. Also, I asked her about Jake."

 _This_ , somehow, manages to be of more interest to them than the entire revelation of your immortality. "Dude, tell us what she said."

"Still hate you," you inform him, and stretch out tense muscles. "She told me that she wasn't going to help me come up with reasons to be unhappy, which, theoretically, could be construed to mean that Jake will...make me happy. I guess."

You're still a little unsure of your feelings on this. It's not outwardly obvious (most of the time), but there actually are a lot of things that make you happy. Rose and Dave and Roxy, for one. Feferi's another, even if she doesn't quite realize it (or maybe she does, you never really _know_  when it comes to her), and your kingdom and people account for a major slice of the Dirk Strider Happiness Pie. Adding in someone new is...it sure is a prospect, is what it is. You're not sure what kind of prospect it is, in your opinion, and you're not sure how you're supposed to feel about it. Happy, presumably, is the goal, but are there stages? Levels? Can you call a friend for help or advice or—

You can feel the soft weight of Feferi's hand on the back of your neck, and your eyes close for a moment. Breathe in, breathe out.

"So, Jake," you say, picking up another infinitesimally small tool, ignoring the way Rose and Dave perk up. "I'm willing to give it a try."

And then you let yourself get lost in the work before the smugly self-satisfied celebration can _actually_  begin.

 

They get ten minutes (presumably to gloat, you make a habit of deliberately _not_  listening and focusing hard enough that you _can't_  pay attention) before you clear your throat in a slightly-less-than-ostentatious way, bringing their attention right back around to you. This, now. This is the hard part. Clearly communicating exactly what you're going to ask them to do is...hard. Hoping that they'll accept instead of going screaming for the hills is hard.

"I know you wanted me to take him as a...consort," you say, shifting in your seat. "But if I choose to—and I do not promise that I _will_  chose to, only that I will give him a try—I want you both there."

"...for...the courting? Because sure, yeah, we can make that work—"

"For the sex," you clarify, cutting Dave off and watching two pairs of eyes go wide. It would be a much more amusing reaction if you weren't feeling so nervous and fidgety. "I won't require it of you, of course not, I want you to be completely comfortable, but..."

Dave drums his fingers on the desk in perfect 3/4 time. "But?"

"Not to be paranoid, but it might be some kind of assassination attempt. _He_  might be some kind of spy, looking to gain information and advantages for Prospit—"

"You want us to supervise you and Jake having sex," says Rose, and—gods help you—she looks like she's _intrigued_  by the idea. "That can also be arranged. Of course, we'll want to supervise the courting process as well. I presume you did not plan on simply jumping into bed with him?"

"I mean, I _could_ ," you say, your voice a mumble. "That guy is thirstier than a sea sponge a thousand miles inland."

" _And_  on a mountain," Dave tacks on. Rose stares the both of you down, and it works far better on him than you. "Uh. So. Sex supervisors. Sexpervisors. Do we get outfits for it?"

"I'm sure that can be arranged," you say, just for the pleasure of watching their faces go white. You have fun.

 

* * *

 

The Courting of Jake English, much to your chagrin, turns into a momentous and monumental affair. People turn up to see it, no matter how quietly you attempt to go, and all of your date plans end up being...well, you're not exactly _good_  at this, and dating isn't your standard method of destress. Rose offers suggestions, Dave gives you tips, Roxy laughs at your troubles, and Feferi mocks you, and, strangely enough, all of it makes you feel a _little_  bit better.

Of course, nothing quite strokes your ego so much as Jake's continued lust for your Striderly Goodies, no matter how badly you fuck up a romantic picnic for two (or four, possibly five or six-ish, you're no longer sure how many people are keeping an eye on you from the bushes, the godly realms, or via their stupidly overpowered position as spymaster).

It's not even that he laughs at all your dumb jokes. It's that he _literally_  spends an exorbitant amount of time staring at you, giving you once-overs, sneaking peeks lower down and straight up just _enjoying_  the sight of you whenever the activities he picks give him a chance to get you a _little_  bit closer to naked. You wouldn't be all that surprised if he has very found memories of the almost-kiss by the watering hole when the two of you went swimming, or if his suggestion of _wrestling_  was little more than an excuse to oil up and put his hands all over you.

Look. It's _really_  good for an overworked immortal recluse prince's self-esteem. You'd taken a poll of the representative sample (you) and the results had been unanimous. Shit didn't suck.

Which was actually starting to be a problem. Sort of. Only if you came at it from another potential implication and definition.

Basically, it's this: You are no longer seducing Jake English, but you'll be _damned_  if he's not going very far out of his way to seduce you.

 

You make it about a month before you actually, finally break.

 

"English. My room. Now."

 

* * *

 

Rose and Dave are, of course, already there. You hadn't even _planned_  on them being there, as rattled as you _might_ be, but there they are nonetheless. Before you can even get the door closed, Jake's already started stripping down. "So we're doing this with an audience, then? Capital idea! If I'd known the sorts of things you were into further in advance, I'd've—"

"Shut up," you tell him, taking a deep breath and heading for the bed. "Get comfortable. I'm going to suck your dick."

His eyebrows almost vanish into his hairline, and you take that solid minute to be incredibly smug—then he's grinning again and sprawling out on your bed in the most luxurious of ways. "Right-o, Your Highness!"

Oh, gods. You're going to need to invest in gags, probably.

Your clothes are quickly shed as you follow after him, making your way right onto the bed. His dick is pretty fucking glorious, and you're already having fantasies of riding it, Jake strapped to the headboard and gagged while you work out your pleasure with each, decadent thrust—

"Are we allowed to offer suggestions?" 

Dave's voice cuts through your reverie, and you're about to round on him when Jake speaks up. "Feel free, my good man!"

"I want to see you fuck his ass."

 _Oh._  Okay. That...that's not a bad idea, actually. You could watch him ride you, or you could take him down and fuck him hard, make him _like_  whatever you deigned to offer, whatever you gave, and watch how his expression would change—

"Yeah," you say, "okay, let's do that."

 

You don't even have to prep him. Jake preps himself, and he makes you watch, staring and almost desperately salivating, as you tell yourself that you're not _actually_  about to drool, that this _isn't_  up there as one of the hottest things you've ever fucking seen. You're lying on basically every count, but he's too far gone to actually notice that. Watching the way he works his ass open is fucking _hot_ , and you'd be lying if you said you couldn't watch the sight of him probably every goddamn day for the rest of your immortal life.

"You look so good like that, Jake. You know that, don't you? You know exactly how good you look, you know that everyone's staring at you, you _like_  it, don't you?" Your hand lands on his thigh, and he shudders his way through a gasp. You're not sure how long he'll last, once your dick is actually buried inside that tight ass. You dip into the voice you use when you hand out official decrees and royal commands. "Tell me."

"Ah—yes, _yes_ , I like it, my Prince, _fuck_ —"

The snapping sound is your self-control, and you lunge in to kiss him, one hand wrapped around his dick and stroking as he works himself open and gets himself off. It's incredibly easy to watch his reactions and figure out exactly how close you can get him to his breaking point—or it would be, but then he's shoving you off.

Not snarling is a close run thing but he doesn't seem the least bit phased when shakes his head. "Not _yet_. I, hhhah, I refuse to finish until you're eggs and bacon deep inside my ass—"

That's about all you let him say, hauling him down the bed and _shoving_  yourself into him, like you can't be fucking him fast enough. Maybe you _can't_ , but you could at least maintain a little more decorum than this. Probably. Nah, actually, you're just playing into his true underlying desires. That's definitely it. "This is what you wanted, Jake? This is how you've wanted me to fuck you all along?"

"Nn, _Dirk_ —"

Your hand lands on his mouth (and you thank your last fragment of sanity, that you didn't go for his throat), but your hips don't slow, snapping forward to bury yourself between well-tanned thighs (you'll have to ask when he went to bathe naked in nothing but sunlight, and if you can maybe join him). "Did I give you leave to call me by name, English?"

"Ah—"

_"Say it."_

He squirms under you, then gives in, his mouth moving against his hand as he tries to scrape together enough brain cells to sort out exactly what you mean. To your absolute pleasure, he doesn't disappoint. "Your Highness, _please_ —"

Fierce pride runs through you, and you slam deeper into him, fucking him as hard as you possibly can. You're going to pay for this later, you know—Rose's attention and Dave's eagerness are nearly palpable, in the sex-heavy air—but for now, all you can focus on is absolutely destroying this latest tribute tossed at the unforgiving feet of the immortal prince.

Somehow, you don't think that Jake has it in him to mind.

 

His words are _much_  more tolerable when they're absolutely incoherent, and you're kind enough to let him wrap a hand around his dick, stroke himself off as you feel your own orgasm build and grow. It's like something out of the dirtier kind of romance novel—the two of you come together, yours buried deep inside his ass, his spilling all over you both. You stay where you are, kneeling over him and panting, until Dave and Rose carefully pull you away.

"Tapped out, yet, Prince?" This is Dave, who's running a hand over your hair and tilting your head back to check your eyes. "Don't know if you noticed it, but Jake clawed you the fuck up."

"Oh," you say, because you hadn't noticed it, but now that he's mentioned it, the sting is a lot more readily apparent. "Okay."

"We still need an answer, Your Highness." This is Rose, who's— _fuck_ , that's a damp cloth, and it's on your dick, and even if she's careful and even if you're _still fucking hard_ , you're sensitive, and therefore she's a bitch. "Are you tapping out yet?"

"That's a different question, Rose," you manage, because even now in the middle of an impending princely sandwich, you've got it in you to be pedantic. "Did you want an answer to both?"

"If you think you can manage to give one."

"I'm not going to tap out, and you ought to know exactly how far I am from tapped out."

"Excellent," Dave purrs, and _shit_  you forgot how strong he was. Definite sign that you need to get back out onto the sparring courts as soon as possible. He yanks your arms back and you know he's about to tie them in place when Jake does a polite little cough from the headboard. You can practically feel Dave's eyebrows go up. "Yeah?"

Now Jake looks sheepish. "Ah—if I could continue to join in on whatever shenanigans you're planning on perpetrating—"

"Sure, dude. Rose, what do you think?"

Rose pauses, her hand still on your dick, and gives you a considering look. "You'll want his wrists above his head. I'd hate for him to have to end all the fun early because his arms became a slight bit sore."

You _are_  going to kill her. Definitely. Just as soon as you can figure out a reason you'd be allowed to that would hold up in the Dersite court. You're pretty sure you could buy someone off _whoa_  hey okay those are your hands and wrists and _shit_ —

Dave flips you over, and it's laughably easy for him to do, and it'd be hideously embarrassing for you if you weren't immediately set upon again. Someone—maybe Jake—ends up shoving pillows under your back, just enough to prop your hips and shoulders up nice and steady, and the reason for this doubled set of attention becomes visible almost immediately. His hands—no, Jake's—grip the back of your head, and, oh, _fuck_ , you'd planned on saying something but he thrusts his hardening dick down your throat, and you're having a little bit of difficulty trying to follow that thought up with anything else.

And then, of course, you're further distracted by the way Dave is giving you further attention and working your ass open, and _then_  you realize that Rose's efforts at cleaning off your dick have been completely self-serving, because she's grinding her hips up against yours in a way you've come to know _very_  well.

Ah. Okay. So _that's_  where this is going.

 

Between the three of them, you're very soon strung out on pleasure and whimpering, as much as you can around the entirety of Jake's length. His hands run through your hair as he fucks your throat, the exact kind of tenderness and roughness juxtaposition that gets you right in the godsdamn dick.

Which is, right, currently being taken deep inside Rose, holy _fuck_.

Dave shifts your hips just right, so that Rose can ride you as he fucks your ass, and your toes curl against the sheets when he hits your prostate, all of your cries muffled by the probable miles of dick still in your mouth. You're pretty sure you should be saying something, fuck, you're pretty sure you should be _doing_  something, you didn't show up to this orgy just to lay around, but you'll be damned if they're actually bothering to _let_  you.

"We need to get a mirror in here," Rose tells you, her fingertips stroking over your throat. "You need to be able to see exactly how good you look like this."

"Press him up against it and fuck him there," Dave concurs, lifting you up just a little higher. Your feet can no longer touch the bed, as he drives into your ass, and you realize that your formerly trustworthy advisors are planning on taking powerplay to a whole new level. Assholes.

"Hhhhah," says Jake, and you think that's all he's got in him until he practically bucks into your throat. "He seems like the type, to get off on, such a licentious thing."

Dave snorts, and above you—oh, _fuck_ , did they kiss? You need to know who kissed who like you need (well, not air, you're doing fine without that) further stimulation. "Like you wouldn't?" 

Your hips jerk forward as Dave tips you another certain way, then drop back onto the pillows when Rose rolls down to meet them. Jake, you think, is trading kisses with the two of them, judging by the start-stop of his hips, burying deep then half-pulling out, like he's barely remembering to let you breathe. It's too much, it's too perfect, and you're about to try saying something else when you _feel_  Rose and Dave decide on a shift and find yourself coming, hard.

 

Whiteouts are, possibly, one of your favorite parts of sex. You _like_  your mind going blank, the brief reprieve from all of your thoughts and the rest of the weight of the world. Resurfacing is another kind of pleasure. It brings you back, indistinct at first, lost in the sound of chatter and thoughts. You can still feel the stretch of your ass, the tight around your dick, the burn of your throat—Dave, Rose, Jake—and it sends another slow (painful, steady) roll of pleasure through the whole of you.

You think—you hope—that maybe they're close. Everything is too raw, too brilliantly blinding, too much, and you want _more_ , you wouldn't have it any other way.

"I think he's back," says Rose in the softest (loudest?) of murmurs, and it's all you can focus on, as you feel-not-see her lean down, her teeth grazing over your pulse—the length of him, buried behind-between your pulse—then down your throat, your shoulders and neck. When she bites down, you try crying out again, regardless of the strangled way it sounds, of the humiliation of saliva and precome spilling out of your mouth around Jake's dick.

It doesn't stop her, though. Rose keeps biting, sucking marks into your shoulders and chest, breaking skin where others wouldn't dare, and you're nearly sobbing from the pleasure of it, painfully close to another high. It only gets worse when Rose pulls herself off of you, worse than that when she sits herself over your dick, rubbing you between her folds to coax you over another edge. You can feel your own climax leaking out of her, and she seems determined to cover you with your own come, twice over.

"Oh, _fuck_. Good idea, he's gonna look so fucking good like that—"

You're not sure (at first) what Dave is saying. What he means takes even longer to process and parse, and by the time you've gotten enough for your eyes to go wide (under your excellent view of Jake English's hips and ass), they've both doubled their pace, fucking into you in a way that makes you want to cry from the sheer _more_  of it. You know they're chasing their own pleasure, even as they plan on adding to yours, and it makes the whole ordeal that much more overwhelming, and it, it—

Dave hits one last thrust up against your prostate, just enough, when coupled with the movement of Rose's hips, to send you into screaming orgasm—and he's timed it _perfectly_ , absolutely perfectly, because Jake does the same and they both pull out of you at the same time, the better to spill all over your fucked-to-blushing skin.

If you weren't so wrecked—if you weren't so overwhelmed—if you hadn't been so completely and utterly _taken_ —

Well, you think it's hot enough that it'd make you come again.

 

"You know, we should probably get him cleaned up." You're not sure, through your fucked-out haze, but you think it's something you hear Rose or Dave say.

"Later," the other one replies, and they both snuggle up against you, tucked on either side, as an exhausted Jake strokes over your hair. "I already untied the rope, anyway, he'll be fine."

Okay. So.

Maybe Rose was right. And definitely, you could get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> roxy's preferred spelling of diplomacy, with two Cs and an extra K: di **ck** plomacy


End file.
